Insignificant
by catch22girl
Summary: [Collateral] Vincent at home.


Title: Insignificant  
Author: Catch22Girl  
Movie: Collateral  
Summary: Vincent at home.  
Disclaimer: Not mine, belongs to the writer of Collateral, the producers and everyone involved in the film.  
  
Vincent entered his apartment and reset the security system. 14th of the month, rent and utilities were due soon. He absently flipped through junk mail as he picked up the remote for the CD system and hit number one. Charlie Parker greeted him. Sometimes it was hard to truly hate humanity.  
  
Being a hired assassin didn't pay as much as one might think - sure, you could set your own hours and you never had to worry about unemployment because screwing up once was enough to send you to the morgue and not the employment office, but the risks never quite equaled the rewards. It had been almost a month since his last job and more than needing the money, he was getting restless.  
  
Vincent viewed the cash as a kind of perk. Being an assassin was really just a marginally socially acceptable way of racking up the body count. It was a more exhilarating way to spend his time than any other occupation.  
  
He even had his own method, one which marked each victim as 'his'. Luckily, the police on several continents were too stupid to figure it out and he hadn't been unlucky enough to be the subject of anyone's obsession.  
  
If this were a movie, he'd have some young FBI agent coming after him and piecing together his life. They'd crack him open and delve into all his secrets.  
  
However, this was reality and his world consisted of lists and hits.  
  
There were only two rules: Never do a job where you live and never feel guilty.  
  
He sat on the couch, leaned back and closed his eyes. Galaxies slowly spun behind his eyelids as he contemplated how insignificant he was compared to the universe. Actually, everyone was barely a speck. Genocide, homicide, mass killings, even a million people barely made an indent in the world's population. People, he thought as he stretched, are expendable.  
  
Charlie Parker kept playing and Vincent reached for his trumpet. He felt the brass under his fingers like an extension of his gun. He placed the mouthpiece against his lips and blew out, listening to the air become music. It was the only peace he knew.  
  
Later, his flat screen TV was set to the news and a constant stream of bodies paraded forth in vibrant color. He had it muted, a swing record on in the background and he watched the death toll mount in any number of natural and unnatural disasters.  
  
"Sudan," he whispered, looking at the mass graves. A flash and the picture changed, "Iraq." He thought about the four people he killed last month and felt nothing. Two of them deserved to die. Two of them did not, but it all evened out in the end. Besides, he was just following orders and getting paid, it wasn't his choice, it wasn't his list. Most of humanity was scum anyway.  
  
People, the ones unlucky enough to cross paths with him, probably thought he was a sociopath. That cabdriver in Oakland, CA, he called him a sociopath right to his face. Vincent didn't mind having to kill him before his plane took off. The man had, after all, seen him and could describe him to law enforcement and that would seriously cut into business.  
  
"Shoot yourself," he remembered saying calmly, like he did everything. "Shoot yourself or I'll go after your wife and kids." And that was easy enough.  
  
True to his word, Vincent got right on that plane and didn't look back, leaving the man's family alone.  
  
Vincent didn't need people. He had his records and his memories and that was more than enough. Besides, as he watched the news and read books on man's inhumanity to man he realized that the entire idea of 'thou shalt not kill' was a myth. It was only the first one that was difficult and after that it was routine.  
  
He didn't even get a thrill out of it anymore. Now, it was almost too easy but that's what happens when you're considered one of the best. His name wasn't in any government database, his face unknown thanks to plastic surgery and he could blend in when it was needed. He ran a hand through his dark hair, it would have to be changed soon.  
  
Closing his eyes again, he had the sensation of falling and felt himself fading away. In his nightmare he was surrounded by people and screaming but no one paid any attention. He awoke and listened to his own breathing.  
  
Everyone he killed had some type of family either real or ad-hoc. But, when he died, who would mourn for him? It wasn't something he liked to consider.  
  
He forced himself to stand and walked over to his computer. A new message was waiting and he entered the password to receive it.  
  
Encrypted message. That could only mean one thing and he felt that low level of excitement associated with a new job. Almost gleefully he typed in the decryption code.  
  
Back to America. Hell, back to California. LA this time. The ultimate example of disconnected and uncaring people. I could kill someone right in front of most people in that city and they wouldn't blink, he thought. Being a killer in a city full of citizens conditioned to be as distant and uncaring as possible was almost too easy. But, it was work and rent was due soon.  
  
He typed in his affirmative answer and pressed send.  
  
For this, he expected to be paid double.  



End file.
